Chapter Thirty-One
Jax
The world has turned itself inside out.
Snow doesn’t fall anymore; it attacks—flung sideways by the wind in sheets that scrape my skin raw and steal my breath with every step. I can barely see the road, only the faint suggestion of its curve as it clings to the mountain’s ribs.
Ava’s voice still rattles in my skull.
“She went to the store for hot chocolate. It was supposed to be quick.”
I push harder.
Violet’s tracks appear where the road narrows: a small, repeating pattern stamped into the snow, already half-filled by drifting powder. Her boots. I’d recognize that staggered, determined stride anywhere.
“You stubborn girl,” I mutter, though the wind steals the words instantly.
I follow the prints, forcing my legs to move steadily instead of sprinting. Sprinting means slipping. Slipping means going over the edge with her. The slope off the right side of the road here rolls down into tree-choked gullies—places where snow likes to pile deep and murderous.
Dogged steps. One after another. Head low. Breathing through my scarf until ice forms along the fabric.
The tracks veer off the road after a few hundred yards, stumbling toward the steeper side, cutting through the fresh snow where the plows haven’t been yet. I swear under my breath.
“Violet, why?”
Then I remember: she likes shortcuts. Hates backtracking. I’ve watched her hop across drifts instead of walking around them. Efficient. Brave.
Dangerous as hell in weather like this.
The wind kicks up so hard I have to brace myself, leaning into it like a drunk into a wall. Snow batters my coat, claws at my hood, stings every inch of exposed skin.
I keep my eyes on the tracks.
They wobble now. Less sure. The impression of each boot print uneven, deeper on one side, as if she’s been stumbling. Dragging one foot.
My chest tightens.
“Come on, kid… hold on.”
If her blood sugar is crashing out here, in this cold—
No.
I bury the thought. I don’t have room for it. I have room for one thing only: find her.
The white thickens again, swallowing the prints until I have to bend and sweep snow aside with my gloved hand. Every time I lose them for more than a few seconds, panic surges.
“Violet!” I shout into the storm.
The mountain swallows her name. No echo. No answer.
I keep moving.
After a while—minutes, years, who knows—the road tilts more sharply. I recognize this stretch by instinct: the avalanche zone. Even buried in white, the shape of the land, the way the wind moves, the subtle hollow of the slope sings danger.
The warning marker should be close.
I push forward until the headlamp beam strikes orange.
The sign rises from the drift like a buried bone—tall post, reflective stripes, the faded words barely visible beneath ice.
AVALANCHE AREA--NO UNNECESSARY TRAVEL
“I swear to God, kid,” I pant, “if you decided to take a scenic route—”
My lamp slides down the post.
And finds her.
She is curled at the base of the marker like a dropped doll, half-buried in a wind-carved scoop. Her hat has slipped sideways; her hair is a dark smear against the white. Her backpack hangs off one shoulder, one strap twisted like she tried to drag it farther and failed.
For a second—one terrible, endless second—I think I’m too late.
My heart stops.
Then I see it: a small, tremoring movement of her fingers, pressed weakly into the snow.
“Violet!”
I drop to my knees so fast my joints scream. Snow surges beneath me and spills over my boots, freezing my socks instantly.
Her eyes flutter open. They’re unfocused, pupils too wide, irises glassy.
“Hey,” I say, breath coming too harsh, too loud. “Hey, I’ve got you.”
She blinks up at me like she’s looking through water. “Jax?”
The sound of my own name from her mouth nearly undoes me.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You picked a hell of a place for a nap.”
Her lips quirk weakly. “T-tired.”
Her words slur. I pull off one glove with my teeth, fingers instantly burning, and touch her cheek.
Too cold. Too damn cold.
“How long have you been out here?” I ask.
She frowns, as if trying to remember. “Dunno. The world… keeps tilting.”
I push her hood back gently, checking her forehead, then her neck—pulse weak and racing all at once.
“Okay,” I murmur. “We’re doing this the smart way.”
Her gaze slides downward, unfocused, landing on the bright crumpled wrapper buried near her hand.
“Dropped… gummies,” she whispers. “Got… dizzy.”
Emergency glucose. Ava showed me the stash once. Violet must’ve tried.
Must’ve not made it.
I follow the line of her arm. Her fingers are still curled around the strap of her bag like she clung to it until she couldn’t. I unclasp the buckles with numb hands, drag it closer, and yank at the front pocket.
More wrappers. Some empty. Some full. Relief hits me so hard my vision blurs.
“Good girl,” I breathe. “You tried.”
I tear one open with my teeth and press the gummy to her lips.
“Violet, listen to me,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “You need to chew. I know you’re tired. I know you want to sleep. You can’t. Not yet.”
Her jaw moves sluggishly, but she obeys—instinctive trust in every slow bite.
She blinks slowly, lashes crusted with ice. “Was… going… back,” she murmurs. “Snow… kept… moving.”
“I know,” I soothe. “This storm’s an asshole.”
A tiny laugh stutters out of her.
“Another,” I say, feeding her a second gummy. “Small bites.”
Her throat works as she swallows. I keep going. Gummy after gummy. Slow. Steady.
Her trembling eases. Her eyes sharpen—barely—but the cold has already sunk deep. If I don’t get her moving, she will crash again. And maybe not recover.
“Violet,” I say firmly. “You remember what we talked about the first night you were here? About following instructions in emergencies?”
Her brows knit. “You said… you’re bossy.”
A strained huff escapes me. “And?”
“And… I should listen b-because you… uh… you’ve done a lot of stupid things before?”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “Exactly. So it’s time to listen again. I’m going to pick you up. It’s going to be awful. Your muscles will hate it. The wind will hate it. The mountain will hate it. You have to let me anyway.”
Her fingers curl weakly into my coat. “C-can’t walk?”
“Not fast enough,” I say. “Not with the storm getting worse.”
I reach up and yank the zipper of my coat down. The wind tears at it immediately, biting through the thermal layer beneath, but I don’t care. I peel the coat off and wrap it around her small shaking body, tucking the sides tight around her like armor.
Her eyes widen, foggy but aware. “You’ll be c-cold.”
“I’ll live,” I say—because the alternative is unthinkable. “You won’t if we don’t do this.”
She gives a faint nod, trusting me without hesitation. That alone nearly breaks me.
I slide my arms underneath her—one behind her shoulders, one beneath her knees. Even through the layers, she feels too light… too close to slipping away from me entirely.
As soon as I lift, she gasps, body tensing against the shock of movement.
“I know,” I murmur, pulling her close, securing my coat tighter around her with one hand. “I’ve got you.”
“I saw the sign,” she whispers, shaking. “Thought it meant… I was almost home.”
I swallow against the ache in my throat. “You were. You are.”
I adjust my grip, tucking her face into my shoulder away from the wind. Then I hunch forward, turning my body into a shield.
“Jax?” she whispers after a few steps, voice raw.
“Yeah?”
“Are… you scared?”
Honesty is the only currency that matters.
“Yes,” I say. “But not of the mountain.”
Her breath ghosts against my neck. “Of what then?”
“Of losing you,” I say quietly. “Now save your strength. You can yell at me later for calling the storm an asshole.”
A faint hum—agreement or stubbornness—vibrates against me.
Every step is a negotiation with the mountain. My boots sink deep—to the calf, to the knee—snow grabbing at my legs like cold hands trying to drag me down. My thighs burn. My lungs burn. My arms shake with the effort of keeping her high enough that snow doesn’t spill into the jacket.
Wind hits us sideways, then from the front, then from behind—swirling in chaotic gusts that try to twist me off the road.
“Not a chance,” I grunt.
I can’t see the station yet. Can barely see ten feet ahead. So I count.
Thirty steps forward.
Pause. Breathe.
Check her. Keep going.
“How’re you doing?” I ask once, when my shoulders feel like fire.
“C-cold,” she mumbles.
“Stay with me.”
Somewhere above us, the mountain groans—a low, distant rumble. I freeze, muscles locking.
Avalanche language. A warning.
My legs go from burning to numb to burning again. Breath jagged. Violet heavier with every yard—not physically, but because fear adds its own weight.
Then—finally—a faint glow emerges through the white.
The ranger station.
I didn’t choose the direction consciously—instinct dragged us here. Toward light. Toward help.
“Almost there,” I tell her. “See that light? That’s where your mom gets to ugly-cry all over you.”
She makes a weak sound that might be a laugh.
I slog the last stretch. The path is churned—boots, paws, tires. Search teams. Ava is here somewhere, heart breaking.
Hold on, I think. Both of you.